The Dancing Detective
by Hazepool
Summary: He's the only one in the world. One-shot.


Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

I'm considering making a two-shot out of this.

* * *

John Watson liked to describe himself as a content, if not happy, man. He was not being shot at by terrorists; he could walk down to the nearest convenience store whenever he wanted to get himself some tea, and rarely demanded more than common courtesy when dealing with other people.

But this man was beyond his expectations.

Yes, John was surprised when he walked into the room with Mike and the scientist there didn't exchange the obligatory pleasantries, but what surprised him more were the shoes the scientist wore.

The man asked for a phone.

"Here," said John, fumbling for his phone. "Use mine."

"Oh," the man said. "Thank you."

Tap-tap-tap-tappitytaptap-tap.

John could only watch dumbfounded as the other man high-stepped his way over to the end of the table where he stood. It didn't seem to affect Mike at all, who introduced John without a single comment on the the scientist's strange footwear. John was not able to do the same.

"Excuse me," said John. "Are those, perhaps, tap shoes?"

Click-click-click, went the man's feet against the linoleum tile.

"Obviously," he said. "Afganistan or Iraq?"

John sputtered for a moment before copying Mike and pretending that the man wasn't tap dancing in place while texting. When the meeting was over, he could hear the metal slapping rhythmically for half a minute as Sherlock tap danced his way down the hallway.

He turned to Mike, who only gave him a half-shrug and a smile.

"And you think we'll be great flat mates?"

* * *

The ride to the crime scene was quiet, John thinking of tap dance and expectations rather than making polite conversation. They walked into the room with the body of a woman in pink sprawled out face down. John examined her first. Sherlock followed after him, doing an leap over the the body when he was finished studying her head and wished to look at her shoes, causing complaints from the peanut gallery. As Lestrade escorted an unwilling Anderson out of the attic and to the third floor to get a cup of tea, John noticed the lack of noise Sherlock was making against the hard, wood floor.

"So you only wear tap shoes in the lab," John said, trying his own hand at deduction.

Sherlock snorted. "Please. Like I could ever get the same amount of quality sound on the carpet at home. The lab has much better acoustics. Besides, today isn't a tap day."

"I'm sorry?"

Sherlock gestured to his outfit. "Today," he said with a sniff, "is ballet."

"Oh," said John, and felt a bit foolish. Sherlock was wearing what he considered to be a normal outfit, if not a bit fancy – black slacks, a crisp, white button-up shirt, a black vest, and a bowtie. On closer inspection, the slacks were slightly tighter than business slacks, and appeared to be made from different material, probably for better movement. His shoes also seemed to be more sensible for moving around than for show. "Yes, well, I haven't seen that many ballets before. Sorry. What exactly is your job?"

"I'm a consulting detective," said Sherlock. "Second one in all of history."

John thought he sounded slightly upset at being second.

"That's quite impressive," said John. "What does a consulting detective do?"

"It means that when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they come to me for help."

"Brilliant. Then the dancing is a hobby?"

"No," said Sherlock. "It's a part of my job."

"The police ask you to dance...while solving crimes," John said slowly.

"Of course not. The police are idiots, but they wouldn't ask a detective to dance for them. I'm a dancing detective, the only one in the entire world."

Now Sherlock sounded smug.

John frowned. "It couldn't be so bad, being the second consulting detective. You don't have to dance to be unique."

"The other consulting detective lived in the 19th century and was also named Sherlock Holmes."

"Well." John did his best to be polite and diplomatic. "That's unfortunate."

Then the Detective Inspector returned, and didn't bat an eye when Sherlock executed a series of _demi plies _while he explained his conclusions.

* * *

"Sherlock!" John hissed. "Can't you change into something a little nicer?"

Sherlock gave John his best un-impressed look over his large sunglasses.

"You've gotten in a fight with someone."

"I had a row with in the grocery with the machine." John shook his head and focused on the subject at hand. He pointed to the baggy white t-shirt, too-large pants held up by a belt, beat-up sneakers and baseball cap. "That is not appropriate attire for meeting a client, especially a high ranking banker like this one."

"Neither is your jacket," said Sherlock. "It has patches at the elbows."

John felt his face warm.

"My jacket is leather and is in very good condition, thank you very much. The patches are a part of it. Are you even going to wear a jacket today?"

Sherlock's answer was to pull a heavy, black sweatshirt over his head.

"Good god, you're impossible." John threw up his hands and headed towards the door. "What is this, gang style?"

"No," said Sherlock. "Today is hip-hop, with some street style popping." He jutted his neck and head back and forth to prove it.

"Okay," said John, feeling sick from watching him. "You're not _human_. New rule – no dancing, popping, tapping, or whatever it is you're doing in the flat. Save it for when we're on the job, for what good it'll do then."

* * *

"So let me get this straight." Lestrade leaned forward on his desk. "It's hip-hop day, and Sherlock looks like a mobster."

"I do not look like a mobster," Sherlock began to loudly protest.

"Yes," said John, cutting in hastily. "He did." Sherlock shoved his hands into the pouch of his sweatshirt and slumped back into his chair, cap pulled down over his eyes.

"The Black Lotus contacts Sherlock while under the impression that Sherlock is a part of their British transporting crew when Sherlock does a dance-off with one of the real mob members."

"Yes," said John. Sherlock continued to sulk.

"Then they give Sherlock the pin they took off of a dead secretary who was the love interest of this Van Coon. Sherlock, of all people, is told to take it to the black market auction because British people will spent more money on something auctioned by a countryman. They also threaten to kill Sherlock's fellow crewmates if he fails. Why the hell did they want Sherlock to be the one selling a priceless item?"

"Foreigners have a reputation of cheating people on the black market. Buying from your countryman feels safer to the buyers," said Sherlock.

"Yes, but Dr. Watson looks much more trustworthy than you do. Why wasn't he the one to sell the pin?"

"I was stopped by the police for causing a public disturbance at three in the morning," said John. "I've got two charges now, vandalism and this. I have to appear in court on Tuesday."

"Public disturbance?"

"He," said John, gesturing to Sherlock, "left his boombox turned up all the way it could go in a residential area. Then he ran after some shadows in one of the alleys, and when I stayed behind to turn down the volume, I got a write-up."

"I know men down in that district, I'm sure we can do something about this misunderstanding," said Lestrade. "I'm not so sure about what Sherlock decided to do."

The three men looked down at the small pin lying innocently on the desk in between them.

The Detective Inspector ran a hand through his short hair. "How many bodies can I expect to find tomorrow?"

"Don't be stupid, you won't be able to find any bodies."

It was John's turn to give his flat mate a disapproving look.

"They're in Scotland, facing drug charges." John thought Sherlock might have rolled his eyes, but couldn't see under the baseball cap. "Mycroft would have tattled, and mummy would be very displeased."

* * *

Yet, despite all of Sherlock's oddities and ends, John couldn't help but feel a mix of relief and horror as Sherlock skipped into the pool, twirling a bowler hat and humming. And not three minutes later, John found himself latching onto Moriarty, doing his best to get the insane man in a choke hold while in a bulky, bomb-riddled coat.

"It can be sweet, I can see why you like having him around," said Moriarty. "People do get so sensitive about their pets. You're so touchingly loyal – oops! You've rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson."

A red light appeared on Sherlock's forehead, on the brim of his bowler hat. There was a sinking feeling in John's stomach, and he let go, backing away slowly with his hands raised.

Jim Moriarty brushed off some invisible dust off his suit.

"Westwood."

Sherlock nodded. "A good choice. I prefer Armani myself."

"Oh," drawled Moriarty. "And what's today, hm? That's a tailored suit from Italy, not Armani."

Sherlock lifted his elbow without letting go of his gun, showing off the shiny, black cane hooked on his arm.

"Line dancing, ritz style. Obviously Gary Cooper. Weren't you the one pretending to be gay? Haven't you heard of the Ritz?"

John closed his eyes, prayed for patience, ignored the two alternating between chatting about some old dance form and threatening the other, and counted to ten. When that didn't work, he counted to twenty. Then thirty. He was at fifty-seven when the coat was ripped off his body and flung away.

"John, are you all right?"

John licked his lips, looking at the worried face of Sherlock.

"Sherlock, I'm fine, but there's something I need to ask you."

"Anything, what is it?"

"What the_ bloody hell_ did you do to my cane?"


End file.
